Ophelia has returned
by LuminaGlass
Summary: Rin Cardemonde is an exiled princess of the Empire. She is angry, and she wants revenge. Caught in the midst of a terrorist attack, Rin finds herself with exactly that opportunity. And when she helps a group of terrorists win their first battle, she starts spinning a wheel that won't stop until the whole world goes down in flames.


"We have now sunk a depth at which restatement of the obvious is the first duty of intelligent men."

- George Orwell

Prologue

Japan has become a Colony of the Imperial Empire.

Almost every city of Earth has become a Colony of the Holy Imperial Empire.

Imperial Colonization started after the Third World War between Great Britain and Japan ended on the 3rd of October, 2031.

The people call it the Reign of the Four Alliances—an era where hatred, lies and darkness rule in tyranny.

It started with the Imperial War—also known as the war that was supposed to end all those other wars. But that's what they had said about the First and Second World Wars, too, isn't it? Every war is started with the intention of ending the conflict appearing between people, the differences that naturally exist between neighbours and friends.

It never works, though. It never ends anything.

The fact remains: The Imperial War stopped nothing, solved nothing, settled absolutely nothing that the Third World War had begun. It was all just a play of empty words—something sold to the remaining inhabitants of the world by the people who were supposed to be running it—to ensure an ill-conceived illusion of a safe society.

Safety, however, has long not been a reality for civilians; it disappeared along with freedom. War has become part of the daily routine for most; a constant reminder of what we did wrong.

In the new world, the strong rule over the weak; the powerful reign over the powerless; and the rich enslave the poor.

You are born into your role. There is no choice.

Once-mighty countries and magnificent cities were brought to their knees due to the greed of the Imperial War. They were sucked dry of their natural resources and then left to fall to ruin;

They were reduced to mere numbers.

This had gone on for thirty long years, never with an end in sight, when one day, it suddenly . . . stopped.

The white flags of surrender were hoisted and the constant sound of gunshots ceased

But just because the façade of war had cracked and shattered like fragile glass, didn't mean the suffering war over yet.

The Reign of the Four Alliances has driven the world into an era of hostility; an era where speaking out and laying words to one's thoughts can condemn you to death, if you're considered part of a lower-class people.

It also means that the world is split into four groups:

Fifty-five percent f the world is controlled by the Holy Imperial Empire; whom Colonized every city from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, to Narita, Japan, and further. Twenty-five percent is owned by the Chinese Federation, who claimed places like Russia and Indonesia without a moments' hesitation. Fifteen percent is led by the African Alignment, who decided to keep their borders local and distance themselves from the wars going on around them. The remaining five percent is under the control of the Australian Congress, who followed the example of the African Alignment.

Each Alliance has its own Capitals, Imperial Colonies and rank of Commanders: London and New York are the Capitals for the Holy Imperial Empire, who is led by the Royal Family—starting with Emperor, then the Empress, and then the Royal Children, eldest to youngest.

Moscow and Beijing are the Capitals for the Chinese Federation; whose Government is split into two groups: The Huánghòu—a young princess called Cai Lu—and the Highs—five of the best tactical soldiers in Russia, China and India.

Cape Town and Johannesburg are the Capitals for the African Alignment; and Canberra and Wellington for the Australian Congress.

Over the years, small resistance groups appeared in each Alliance, but they were inexperienced and quickly taken care of: Executed publically by whichever Government they fought against. These events are now known as Execution Parades.

It worked for a few years, but as the living conditions in the Imperial Colonies—cities made up out of people who are considered inferior, and only allowed to live in order to work for the Nobles—became worse, the number of rebels increased again, and soon each Alliance had its hands full with civilians who just didn't listen to them; who didn't care who they hurt anymore.

That was how the current war stared. The Rebellion War.

Just like the wars before it, the Rebellion War started out as nothing more than small-scale fighting between rebels and their Colony's Government, but it is getting worse every day.

The rebels are dying faster—they don't have the resources to fight a fair fight against their superiors—and each Government is winning more and more fear from the inhabitants of its Colony.

Innocent, everyday people from the 'inferior cities' are dying more and more often, as well, all because of the poor circumstances that they are forced to live in by the Alliances, who in return claim that the living conditions are better than required.

And while more and more people of the 'lesser areas' are dying in a war that isn't even theirs, the Nobles of the Holy Imperial Empire and the Chinese Federation send their children to expensive schools in foreign cities—cities that have long since lost their names—and attend parties, wasting money on frivolous mediocrities.

The rest of the world suffers because of them; being forced to work for a minority fraction of the amount of money that the Nobles other wisely get for free.

A lot of people died in the years that followed the outbreak of the Rebellion War directly—and they are still dying now. Whether from invading soldiers, poor environmental circumstances, or the lack of medical-care in their city—they reasons don't really matter in the long run, do they? They don't change the fact that innocent people have lost their lives.

And for what?

Pride? Glory? Spoils that are worth nothing anyhow?

None of those reasons are good enough.

Not if the consequences are the loss of men, women and children whose only wishes are to live in harmony.

Right now, our world is falling deeper and deeper into a crevice made by the hands of its own greed-driven inhabitants; and if we keep falling, we'll never make it out again.

We, as humanity, will be lost in a world we created through demons of war and hatred. Forever.

"I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep; I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion."

- Alexander the Great

Chapter One

A new demon born

12th January, 2139

The once-quaint façade of Tokyo City—Colony Twenty-five now—speeds past as Elliot revs the engine of his out-of-date blue motorcycle—the likes of which cannot even be bought anymore.

I sit in the side-car—much to my displeasure and irritation—and watch the shiny, high-rise buildings go by. In the distance, just beneath a small cluster of darkening rain clouds, I can see the beginnings of the old Shinjuku-settlement—once a vibrant ward of Tokyo; now a deserted battlefield.

The clouds seem to only cover that part of Shinjuku—the part where rebels, terrorists and outlaws reside and plot to overthrow the Government with poorly thought-through plans and no useful resources.

After the first attack of the Take-Over, Shinjuku's inhabitants-number had decreased immensely, until there wasn't anyone left to occupy it.

I sigh; it's sad to see such a place of extraordinary development and innovation reduced to a city of ashes; a place to symbolize abandonment and fear.

The old settlement is the perfect metaphor for our broken society.

Elliot's bike suddenly lurches to a stop.

I am so far in the back of my mind that I don't even realize that we've reached our destination already.

My thoughts always end up dwelling when I drive through Tokyo, taking in the city's astonishing beauty.

"We're here," Elliot says. His familiar voice draws me out of my head; out of my nerve-wracking reverie.

Elliot Reymont is the only son of a wealthy Imperial businessman, and as such, I bring him along for tactical purposes. He has quite a mind for logic, and seeing things that others would miss upon first glance.

I get out of the side-car and make my way into the tall glass-and-steel building standing on the corner of one of the busy blocks located on the Shibuya Crossing, tucking Elliot's spare motorcycle helmet under my arm as I walk.

The lady behind the tall, steel front desk stares icily at us, and I don't hesitate to glare right back.

_If only you knew who I am._

She's a short, stocky lady with made-up purple eyelids and way too much red lipstick on. Her white blouse doesn't fit over her large bust properly and she looks uncomfortable in her too-small desk-chair—which anyone can see she has no love for.

"Can I help you?" she asks, eying the two of us warily and sounding as if she'd rather not. Her name tag reads GERTRUDE in big bold letters.

I place Elliot's helmet on the desk, daring her with my eyes to tell me to take it away. She doesn't. "Yes. My name is Carla Joy; we're here for a meeting with my father, Axel," I answer after a beat of silence. "He's the man who owns this building." I make sure to include that fascinating fact, just in case Gertrude is considering telling me and Elliot to leave—which I can see from her facial expression she wants to do.

Gertrude presses one of the top chrome buttons on her black intercom and talks into the speaker for a moment. I don't bother to try and listen.

She turns back to us with a scowl on her already-ugly face and says, "You can go up now. The elevators are around the corner to the left. He's up on the—"

"I know where it is," I say coldly. Leaving the helmet on her desk, I walk away, faintly hearing Elliot thank her for the 'help' she'd given us. I don't know why he bothers; she had done nothing to deserve his kindness.

I decide to let it go; Elliot had obviously not been raised like me. If there is one thing my useless father had taught me, it's that kindness is a weakness every human has, but only few can hide.

As I press the button to call the elevator, the device implanted into my ear starts to vibrate, indicating that someone is trying to contact me. I briefly touch my ear, and the webbed blue screen of my Sensor suddenly comes to life before my eyes, depicting a haphazard arrangement of meetings and reminders on the left side, and an angry blonde-haired boy on the right—Cieran Gardner, my ex-boyfriend.

"Hello?" I say tentatively, sighing inwardly when his scowl doesn't fade.

"Rin, where in Hell are you?" is the first thing he says to me. Cieran—like his ostentatious mother—does not bother with formalities. I don't waste time in getting what I want, Rin; you of all people should understand that better than anyone, he'd once told me—back when we were still dating.

"You cut class. Again." Cieran takes a deep, calming breath. Even though our break up last year had been messy, he still cares about me—that much is clear. But his anger isn't stemming from his worry for me; he's jealous. Jealous that I brought Elliot with me instead of him like I always did.

"And Nina said that Elliot disappeared right before study hall."

I sigh. Outwardly this time. Over-protective as always. "Cieran, we're fine. I cut English because we aren't doing anything important yet; Elliot willingly came with." I don't dare tell him that I know what he's thinking.

_You no longer want it to be me with you, Rin, do you?_

Cieran grinds his teeth together. "You two are out gambling again, aren't you?" He doesn't give me time to answer. "For God's sake, Rin, I understand if you feel the pressing need to put yourself in harm's way, but don't implicate poor Elliot—his father's already on his ass as it is."

_You're just angry because you are no longer the one I turn to with the simplest things, _I want to tell him, but I decide against it. Starting a fight with him now will do absolutely no good.

The metallic door of the mostly glass elevator glides open soundlessly and Elliot and I step in. I gesture at Elliot to pick the top floor, glad for the momentary distraction. I do not like being patronized—especially by someone who was suspended for five weeks for setting a computer-lab on fire.

I count to ten. "You know, Cieran," I say, feeling the annoyance ebb away, "it is not work that kills, but rather worry." The door closes. "And beside, Elliot's business with his father has nothing to do with you—I didn't force him to accompany me."

Now it's Cieran's turn to count to ten. I can see the angry, aggravated tension in the strong line of his jaw. "You exhaust me, Rinny," he says after a moment of silence, and the fact that he uses that ridiculous nickname I've been trying to rid myself of since the fifth grade, tells me that I've been forgiven. "I'll always worry about you, no matter what," he adds in a softer tone. "Just . . . don't get yourself killed, okay? The news said that some terrorists were spotted in downtown Twenty-five."

I want to laugh; that's how ridiculous he's being.

I settle for rolling my eyes. "Cieran, be serious. We're on the other side of the city."

Cieran, however, doesn't see the humour in his words.

The elevator dings loudly above me, drowning out the sound of the horrible headache-inducing music playing in the background, signalling our arrival.

"I'm serious, Rinny," Cieran says, not backing down. He just loves making a fight out of everything little thing.

I smile inwardly. It's convenient that he likes fighting so much, because I do to.

Elliot and I step out into the hall at the same time. "I know, Cie, I know. We'll be careful—you have my word."

Elliot taps me on the shoulder and indicated the sign on the wall that prohibits the use of cellular-instruments and the like on this floor. I already know it's there, but I pretend I don't. "Look, I have to go," I say quietly. "We'll take when I get back."

"Be careful," Cieran warns again, and then he disconnects. The screen in front of my eyes disappears in a flash and everything returns to normal again.

"What was that about?" Elliot asks as we make our way down the poorly lit corridor—made entirely of shiny black steel that had clearly been smuggled in from the Chinese Federation—to the only door on the top floor.

"Just Cieran being Cieran," is all I say, ending the discussion abruptly.

The door in front of us is large, high, very wide and made of the same shiny black metal that the floor and walls are made of. The two look so much alike that Elliot walks right past it, but I stop him. It's his first time in this specific building, but I've been here many times before on my own, or sometimes with Cieran. I can find the door in the dark with my eyes blindfolded and my hands tied behind my back.

I rap on the door twice, the steel hurting my hand just slightly, then open it. I haven't cared if people thought me rude or insubordinate in a very long time.

A single room with various doorways branching from it opens up into view. The walls are plastered with navy-blue—almost black—wallpaper, and the skirting is made of dark oak-wood. It gives the room an air of meticulousness.

The ceiling is painted a clean shade of white, with a magnificent crystal-cut chandelier hanging from a short, chain-link silver cord, exactly in the centre of the room.

The almost-black blinds are drawn, covering the room in shadows and not allowing any of the damp outside light to filter through the large floor-to-ceiling windows beyond. The room smells sharply of tea and out-dated cologne; citrus and polish.

A marble chess table and two high-backed armchairs are set up in the middle of the room, directly underneath the sharp spires of the chandelier.

Without saying a word, I note to Elliot that the chandelier is swaying ever so slightly, straining against its cord. There is no wind in the room; no artificial breeze; no air-conditioned draught; not even so much as an open window. It's a cheap trick, but played on the right kind of moron, can be most effective.

A chandelier that weighs as much as this one probably does, falling from a height of an estimated ten feet, can be deadly; even more so if it's premeditated.

Elliot nods quietly, understanding.

"Come in," the charming voice of a Noblood Imperial says. I don't need to look around to see who the voice belonged to and from where it had come. I know that voice as good as I know my own.

Axel Joy—a man who pretends to be an Imperial when, in fact, he cannot be further from it. He's an Honorary Imperial—a Noblood, if you will—the worst kind of self-righteous Imperial in existence.

He's already sitting in one of the high-backed chairs with a cup of tea in his left hand, waiting for me to join him.

All six of the doors branching from the main room then open simultaneously, so in sync with each other that it look as if it had required many hours of rehearsal. Six burly figures step into the game-area.

All of them are wearing dark-tinted sunglasses—even though the room itself it so dark you practically cannot see your hand in front of your face—with matching black tuxedos and sour expressions. None of them have any hair—a ploy to disguise the fact that they are Japanese.

"Playing with the citizens again, are we, Axel?" I say, amusement colouring my voice. "The Viceroy won't be too please with you were he to find out about this."

Axel smiles. "Good thing he won't find out, then, isn't it?"

There's a threat behind his words.

I purse my lips. Being patronized and being threatened both fall in the same boat with me—I don't like either.

"Well, I just might tell him, unless you can convince me otherwise."

Axel raises an eyebrow. "Is there something specific you want for your silence?"

"Your receptionist was rather rude, Axel. In return for my silence, I want you to get rid of her."

The older man chuckles. "Consider it done."

My ridiculous request is forgotten when I see a glint of black strapped to the thigh of the man standing closest to me and Elliot.

A gun.

Holy shit, These men are armed.

This 'chess-game' has just become a lot more dangerous.

I scoff, putting up more bravado than I actually feel. "Is this really necessary?" I ask, hoping that my voice doesn't sound as thin to his ears as it does to mine. "We're high school students, not assassins!" I throw my hands into the air to emphasize my point, and to conceal my shaking fingers.

I can feel Axel smiling, even though I can' really see him. "Just a precaution, my dear," he replies, perfectly at ease in a room that is one matchstick away from exploding. "You'd be surprised how many people want me dead; and how far they'd go to achieve that goal."

Actually, I probably won't be.

In every case where I go off gambling money that I don't really have, I do my research first. I don't underestimate my opposition, which is why I have never, up to date, been beaten.

Axel Joy is heated amongst the Japanese population of Tokyo, and not just because he's a Noblood, but because he had been the head of the research development that had destroyed the Kōtō-settlement, ultimately releasing a deadly virus that killed almost half a million people before it was evacuated out of the air.

Obviously the Imperials had purposely taken their time to find a vaccination, only so that they could kill so many Japanese people without being reprimanded for their actions.

The incident was later referred to as Accident K, and it was only after this that the Imperials started calling the Japanese people—and anyone else who isn't a Imperial or Honorary Imperial—Colonists; the Cs. This is where the racism really became bad.

Colonists are liabilities to the Imperials—they use resources and take up space, as my father use to tell his Court—but they are considered 'cheap labour'; slaves who can be used once or twice before being thrown away. It is for this reason, and this reason alone, that they are allowed to live.

The Cs had somehow found out about Axel's involvement, and that he had approved the plan to test the carbon dioxide-levels in the Kōtō-area, resulting in the release of a virus called the M2-virus, which rendered the body immobile while the brain began to swell until it eventually exploded. Within a matter of minutes, the person was dead.

Since then, Axel Joy has had his fair share of Japanese protestors trying to break his door down to execute him, or rebels—mostly Kōtō-inhabitants who had managed to elude the virus, or the loved ones of those who hadn't—defacing his multiple properties and expensive belongings to justify their feelings.

I feel for him, I do—constantly living in fear and not knowing who will betray you. But I don't feel sorry for him; I don't pity the fact that he had made a poor choice and now he has to live with the consequences.

He had made his bed many years ago, and now he has to lie in it.

After Elliot and I are both thoroughly—very much so—searched, I take my seat opposite my opponent. He shrugs apologetically, knowing that I don't like being touched. "You never know who wants to hurt you," he mutters quietly.

I eye the six Japanese men sceptically.

_Then maybe you shouldn't hire Cs to guard you_, I want to say, but I decide not to.

Axel's hair has grown whiter since last I saw him, and his skin is sagging more at the corners of his mouth and dull gray eyes.

"Rin," he says slowly, fondly, ignoring the distrustful expression I've put on. They guards weren't here last time we played, which was about two weeks ago, so why now? Has something happened to make him feel unsafe?

"Or shall I call you Carla? Either one works for me." He speaks deliberately slow, awarding himself with the opportunity to study me. I think he's trying to make me nervous, since I beat him last time, but it's not working. "Call me what you want, I don't care."

I like playing with Axel—he's just as quick-witted and perceptive as I am.

"Very well, then. What shall the bet be for today, Rin?"

I grin cockily. "The usual." If I continue going at the rate I'm going, Axel—and all his companies-will be broke by the time I finish high school.

"Five thousand it is, then." He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Axel seems very jumpy today, albeit he's trying very hard to hide it. "And since you won the last game, I shall allow you to begin this one for us."

All thoughts of Japanese security guards, out-of-sorts CEOs, and swaying chandeliers leave my head in a flash. "How kind of you," is all I say in reply, revealing nothing.

Elliot stands on the left side of my chair, his face impassive as he gazes at the chandelier every now and again, careful not to look like anything more than a casual admirer.

The game starts, and I pill my mouth into a thin line. Concentration is key here, and even the tiniest distraction can cause me my victory.

Within a matter of seconds, I lose myself inside the boundaries of a game as deep as the ocean; a battlefield where strategy makes all the difference in the world.

Time slips by us as we make one move after the other; each move bringing one of us closer to the ultimate satisfaction: Victory.

After a while, Elliot says, "You better wrap this up, Rin; we need to get back to school." His words bring me back to Earth.

I sigh. School is soporific, and I would much rather partake in something that actually teaches me a thing or two about real life. But Elliot, as Cieran had been, is right: I can destroy my own future gambling like this, but not Elliot's. "How much time do we have?"

"About twenty-five minutes. Half an hour if I surpass the speed limit."

"You're move, Ms. Cardemonde," Axel interrupts us.

I ignore Axel and turn to Elliot standing beside me. "Fifteen minutes to drive, and ten to sneak back onto campus. Where does that leave us?"

"Umm . . . about five minutes."

I turn back to Axel, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. "I need three."

Axel laughs. "How do you plan to do that, my dead? Thus far, you are behind."

Without saying a word or looking down, I make my move. And from the expression I can read off of Axel Joy's face, I assume that I've surprised him.

"Interesting," he says thoughtfully, playing with his bottom lip—something he does when he's thoughts are running away with him. "I noticed that you moved your king at the beginning of the game," he observes, "and I've been trying to figure out why, but the more I think about it, the further away the answer runs. Do me a favour and put my mind to rest."

For the first time in two minutes, I look down at the board laid out in front of me.

I smile at him; a knowledgeable smile powered by years of hardship. "If the king makes no attempt to lead, how can he expect his subordinates to follow?"

Yet another one of the few useful things my sadistic, narcissistic father had taught me while I still lived under his roof.

Axel chuckles humourlessly. "You are very wise, Ms. Cardemonde. Much wiser than I was at your age."

He makes his next move, and then I make mine—just as Elliot's watch reaches the three-minute mark. I look directly into Axel's tiresome eyes as I say, "Well, I do believe that that is checkmate."

The tension in the room snaps, and then so does the chandelier's chain.

Everything after that happens too quickly for me to fully comprehend: The chandelier falls to the ground; Elliot shoves my chair to the side; the guards draw their guns.

When I lift my head, the chandelier is in splinters, lying on the ground where I had sat only moments ago.

Elliot is lying beside me, his arm thrown over my chest, and the chair is half on top of us.

Axel is standing a few feet back, his mouth a perfect o-shape. He's surprised; though I can't say that I am.

Someone was bound to try and hurt me eventually.

"Rin, are you okay?" Elliot asks, pushing the chair away and help me up.

I dust off my school uniform and nod. "I'm fine, thank you, Elliot." I glare at Axel, who is floundering for words.

"Rin . . . I'm . . . I don't . . ." He composes himself suddenly. "I forgot that I had that installed. It is programmed to trigger whenever someone in the room—who isn't me—thinks themselves to have the upper-hand. It works with brainwave-technology."

I stare at him icily. "It's a cheap trick, Axel; a coward's weapon. I didn't expect something like that from you."

"Like I said: Many people want me dead."

Elliot tugs on my sleeve, indicating his wish to leave. And at this point, I want to leave as well.

The chandelier. The guards. His sudden change in attitude. Something is definitely wrong with him, but I have no desire to find out what it is.

Axel offers me a smile, which I do not return. With a sigh, he turns to one of the guards. "Fetch Ms. Cardemonde's money, please."

Elliot and I leave the building exactly ten minutes after we entered it.

My body is now functioning solely on the left-over adrenaline from earlier.

The high-way is mostly empty—a few stray cars pass Elliot and I as we rush back to Northgate Academy. As much as I'd like to cut the rest of my classes and spend the day gaining life experience, I know I can't. I'm still on probation from the previous time I skipped school.

A large truck—about the size of a double-decker bus—speeds past us, then. The logo of a local TV-station is emblazoned on the side of the mostly black vehicle—but it has been painted over with dark grey paint, done by hand; almost as if the person that had done it had been doing it in a hurry. With the speed that the truck is going, the logo shouldn't be visible to anyone focussing on the road—which is how I know that Elliot's mind is elsewhere:

"Slow down, you moron! People are trying to drive here!" Elliot shouts over the built-in intercom system in our synchronized helmets; swearing in between words. He knows the driver can't hear him, but he does it anyway.

"Elliot, calm down," I say monotonously. "He's gone now."

"I know," Elliot grumbles. "But it annoys me that he thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants. Damn those News25-bastards."

I roll my eyes. Elliot had taken drama at school up until last year; I now see why he was so good at it.

Without warning, a helicopter suddenly emerges from the dense storm-clouds, followed by another one, and then another. They are black, with the crest of the Holy Imperial Empire emblazoned on the flank: A simple red flag with a black heptagram in the upper-left corner.

The Imperial Army.

Large, heavy-looking guns protrude from underneath each helicopter, aimed at the recently constructed highway.

_What the hell are you doing? There are innocent people travelling on that road!_ I want to scream at them—at one man specifically—but I restrain myself. It won't do much to influence the situation.

Then they start shooting at the truck in front of Elliot and me; the massive, missile-like bullets going straight through the concrete in front of Elliot's motorcycle, detonating loudly when they reach the road underneath.

Elliot swears loudly, again, and allows the bike to swerve to the left side of what is left of the Tokyo Highway.

The truck—also trying to avoid being hit—makes a sharp turn . . . and flies off the side of the road, crashing into one of the many Ghettos in Central Tokyo.

The Ghettos are abandoned buildings or areas where not even the Imperials dare to go unless the circumstances force them to.

This specific Ghetto is called the T1-ghetto—and is situated between two bridge-like highways.

The T1-ghetto had been established after an Imperial attack on the headquarters on one of the biggest multipurpose corporations in Japan; all just to symbolize their power and reign over the Cs.

Now the building is dilapidated and mostly uninhabited. Even so, the Imperial Army doesn't dare to move the rubble away—it isn't enough for them to just destroy something that the Cs thought important; they want the Cs to remember what they're capable of.

Elliot comes to a stop, looking over the frail concrete railing on the sidewalk. The truck has crashed into one of the few still-standing walls of the old building, smoke rising from its hood.

I jump out of the sidecar—roughly pulling the suffocating helmet off my head and tossing it to the ground—and rush down a ramp that had once served as a bridge leading to the loading-bay of the building; back when it was still in business.

"Rin!" Elliot shouts, pulling his helmet off as well. "Rin, get back here! What the hell are you doing?"

I turn around—still running—and shout, "I'm just going to check if the driver's okay!" back at him.

"Are you out of your mind?!"

I don't answer him; he's smart enough to figure that one out on his own.

"Cieran's going to kill me," I think I hear him mutter to himself, but I dismiss the idea for my over-active imagination.

The truck looks mostly undamaged as I near it; there's a slim chance that it's still in working condition.

I can hear people starting to gather by the railings of the now-destroyed road, getting out of their cars to get a closer look at what's happening. I walk around to the other side of the vehicle and notice a ladder leading to the roof. I take hold of one of the rusty rungs and hoist myself up slowly, testing the stability first.

People are looking at me; I can feel their gazes burning holes in my back, but it doesn't discourage me; it spurs me on. I climb up all the way and find myself teetering on the edge of a hole. I squint down into the darkness, but see nothing.

"What's that girl doing?!" someone is shouting from the highway.

"Is she an Imperial schoolgirl?" someone else asks.

"No, it can't be," another person comments. "If she is, what's she doing in Central Twenty-five?"

Just by listening, I can tell that they are Imperials. Their ignorance gives them away; the fact that they don't register an impending terrorist attack when it's happening right in front of their eyes makes it clear as day what race they belong to.

I despise those people for closing their eyes so tightly. They are what's wrong with our world. Doing my best to block them out, I shrug off my maroon school blazer and inch closer to the hole, fully intending to climb into the truck through it.

But before I can do so, a large bullet from one of the assault-helicopters rockets past my head, shooting a hole in the wall and just barely missing its mark. The impact causes the truck to shake and I lose my balance, toppling headfirst into the truck. I hear Elliot call my name, and then total silence.

I sit up slowly after a moment, blinking in the darkness, and then I reach up and rub the back of my head. My hand comes away clean, so, for the time being, I'll assume that I'm fine.

The inside of the truck is uninhabited—from what I can see—and completely silent. A thin wall separates the back of the truck from the front where the driver sits. There isn't a door, per se; just a narrow gap in the wall that allows someone quick access from one side to the other.

I poke my head around the wall to look at the driver and his passenger and see that the windshield overhead had shattered during the crash—the shards now lay dangerously by my feet. Both the passenger and the driver are unconscious, but are luckily still breathing.

And now that I've made sure they're alright, my job is done.

Figuring that I still have some time before they come to, I wander back to the rear of the truck, wanting to take a look around.

It's bigger than I first thought—twice the width of a normal sixty-passenger bus, and about three times the height—and there is almost nothing inside: Just a large tank made of a shiny metal that is probably thicker than my head, and another, floor-to-ceiling container infused into the wall. The container is about three times my width when I stand facing it directly.

Thin plastic tub lead to and fro the top of the tank, connected to a small cylinder of what is most likely some form of gas on the side.

Odd cargo for a news-crew to transport, even if they are terrorists.

I trail the tips of my fingers along the chipped-off paint of the red container. There's a warning scribbled into the side of one of the tubes, telling me to beware its contents.

What on earth could be inside these containers? Poisonous gas? Illegal weapons? And what were they planning on doing with them? The terrorists had been heading north when the Army started shooting at them, but the Government's building, and the Royal Palace for that matter, is situated south of the highway, in the exact opposite direction. Were they going to drive around the city a few times before beginning their attack? Or were they running away from something?

A rustling sound startles me out of my thoughts.

I duck behind the smaller container, folding my body into the gap between the wall of the truck and the tank; hidden enough to observe without being seen. The coldness of the metallic wall is biting against the thin materials of my shirt and sweater.

A girl—my age, maybe a year younger—appears in the gap. She is wearing skin-tight shorts made of something that looks like leather and matching red crop-top. A black headband keeps her unruly, shoulder-length hair out of her eyes; hair which is covered in shards of glass that she has to shake out. They sound like a thousand tiny bells ringing as they hit the floor.

I hold my breath as the girl checks the room, slow and thoroughly, searching for something that doesn't belong.

While she studies the room, I study her. Her hair and large brown eyes are definitely things I've seen before, but I cannot remember when or where. It's disarming not being able to place her.

"Sheno," the girl says, then. Her voice is defiant and loud; nothing like the soft voices I have grown used to. She turns back to where she'd come from. "Are you okay?"

I let out a breath in my head; she hadn't seen me.

Sheno—most probably—groans loudly. "I'm fine," he says, "how's the damage back there?"

"The tank's fine," she replies, knowing what Sheno is referring to. "But the Army's going to be on top of us if we don't get moving right now."

From what I can see from my hiding place, Sheno has a head injury—a serious one—and blood is dripping down into the aisle between the two seats.

"I'll take the Gen and fend them off as best I can. Get the tank to Kaname and the others, okay?"

Sheno grunts in response, holding a dirty rag to the injured side of his head. While doing so, I catch a glimpse of his face.

He has hair as black as pitch and sharp, strong features—a local.

The girl pulls the black headband lower on her head and then flips one of two switches on the wall opposite my heading place.

The sharp outside light momentarily robs me of vision. When it finally starts to clear up, the girl is gone, and the container across from me is open all the way, revealing a tall Gen—bigger than I've ever seen.

Gens—scientifically known as G-weapons—were built by a group of Nanogeneticists belonging the Imperial Army's Occult-division shortly after the Take-Over. They operate by draining the energy out of everything around them—objects, people, buildings, everything. But it goes even further than that: Their weapons are fuelled by paranormal energies from different dimensions, making them almost impossible to destroy. No-one is entirely sure how this works, but it does, so it goes mostly unquestioned.

The Gens are fighting machines, created with the intent to make war easier—to make winning easier for the Imperials-and are piloted by willing soldiers with little to no humanity.

They are incredibly difficult to control and near impossible to destroy with mundane weapons like guns and hand-crafted bombs. In order to really destroy a Gen, you must use any and all paranormal energies at your disposal—which isn't easily accomplished by someone who doesn't have a Gen of his own.

I've never seen a Gen in person before, but I've seen News25-broadcast or television-programs trying—and failing rather miserably—their best to depict this monstrous machines.

On average, Gens are built to be about seventeen feet in height. This Gen surpasses that average by at least ten feet more. The machine is kneeling, to fit into the truck, which now seems tiny in comparison.

Bright, fluorescent lights go on, and then the Gen is gone, moving too fast for the naked, untrained eye to follow.

The truck suddenly lurches forward; I'd been so focussed on the girl that I think I know and the odd, over-sized Gen that had been less than five feet away from me, that I hadn't even noticed the driver starting the engine again.

I'm not really all that surprised that the thing still works; the crash could've been much worse—these terrorists had gotten lucky.

The truck starts driving in reverse, then, and I lose my balance for the second time in ten minutes, hitting the back of my head against the wall softly.

I can hear the gears changing, and before I know it, we're driving forward again, swerving to the left and then fishtailing back to the right.

I fall forward, hitting my forehead against the tank this time. It makes a hollow clang, which echoes in the empty truck. Dizziness settles over me as I struggle out of my hiding place and sink to me knees, trying to regain my equilibrium.

My head is pounding a steady, relentless rhythm; a rhythm which I try my best to ignore. I can't have a headache now. Not while Sheno and I are in danger.

The back doors of the truck are still open, and in that brief moment before we disappear into the building, I can see the highway, but no sigh of Elliot.

He's gone.

Once we're inside, a safe distance away from the hole the Army had made, Sheno stops the truck again. The silence that follows in unnerving, so I push myself up, and slowly walk towards the front of the vehicle.

When Sheno sees me, his eyes widen and his mouth forms a large O. Just as he starts to say something, a round of gunshots go off.

I dive to the ground, fear clenching every muscle and nerve-ending in my body. When I'm sure that there isn't a second wave of bullets coming, I look over the dashboard and scan the dark room in front of me. I can't see anyone.

_What the hell? Who shoots at a stationary truck and then runs off?_ I don't allow my thoughts to dwell for too long. There are just too many possible answers to that question.

Sheno groans loudly, and I immediately know that he'd been hit. He is lying with the uninjured side of his face on the steering-wheel, staring out the window with a blank expression. I kneel down beside him, shaking his shoulders until it feels as if I might pass out. "Wake up, Sheno," I whisper frantically into the ear that is facing upwards. Apart from the wound he'd received from the crash, blood is now dripping on the floor from somewhere else, but I can't find the origin.

His hand shoots out suddenly and grabs me by my wrist; bloody fingers digging into my fragile skin. But he's moving, so I don't mind—though I usually don't enjoy being touched.

"The tank . . . we need . . . safe . . ."

_Keep him talking, Rin_, the logical part of my brain tells me. A fine layer of sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, and my head hasn't stopped pounding yet. _Keep him busy_.

"Sheno, what do you need the tank for? Who is 'we'?"

"Better life . . . horizon . . . see it . . ." His eyelids start to droop shut.

"Sheno?" I whisper. The impossible heat of the Ghetto feels as if it's pressing down on me, choking me; I can't breathe. "Sheno, stay with me."

But it's no use; Sheno's dead.

I stand, feeling angry, exhausted and a few years older, yet oddly awake. This is world is so cruel and unfair, and something that's even more unfair is that no-one is doing a damn things about it.

Trying isn't good enough anymore. Someone needs to start changing things. Someone needs to start making some tough decisions.

And maybe that someone is me.

It's perfect really, because I hate the Holy Imperial Empire even more than the Colonists do.

I move back to the rear of the truck, wanting to give the tank another once-over—just in case I'd maybe missed something earlier—when suddenly, the wall to my left explodes.

It's a small explosion, not inclined to do much damage, but strong enough to rip the one side of the truck clean off. Sheets of black dust hang in the air like fog, making it hard for me to breathe as I am thrown against the remaining wall of the vehicle—the wall attacked to the mysterious red tank.

I cough to get the dust out of my lungs. When the fog clears, the dust settling slowly around the room, I can finally see when I arm: An old garage.

The pillars that use to hold the structure upright have been reduced to nothing but rubble; the few windows that the room had had before it was destroyed are now broken, the yellowing glass lying on the ground in piles; debris litter the floor and different kinds of moss, weeds and mushrooms grow on the bare concrete walls.

As I stand to dust myself off, someone crashes into my, sending both me and my assailant to the ground. The person had moved too fast for me to see his or her face, and now I'm pinned to the floor by a dark silhouette.

The attacker is definitely male; small built, but lean. His weight and height suggest that he's about my age.

I struggle against the boy, writhing and flailing helplessly underneath his body. He, in return, tries in vain to pin my hands above my head.

In the end, I manage to kick him between his legs.

The boy launches himself off of me with a growl, finally allowing me to get a better look at my assailant. There's something that looks like a gun-holster strapped to his left thigh, telling me that he's either a soldier or a terrorist.

Considering the circumstances and the environment, my guess is that he's a terrorist. But why would he shoot someone from his side? This just doesn't make any sense.

For a second, the boy just stands there, staring at me. Then he starts in my direction again, walking confidently, his head held high. He doesn't draw his gun.

I jump up at fast as I can; taking steps back as he takes steps forward. He still hasn't drawn his gun.

_What kind of terrorist is he?_ I think. _We doesn't he shoot when there's an unarmed enemy in front of him?_

I hold my breath as the boy finally steps fully into the light—a sort-of spotlight coming through the hole in the roof.

I almost choke on air. He isn't a terrorist; he's a soldier_._

The boy is wearing the uniform of the Imperial Army. His hair is the colour of melted dark chocolate and his eyes are so blue that I can see them even with the debris-dust clouding my view as it struggles to settle, again.

I am utterly shocked, and, for the first time in probably eight years, my facial expression betrays what I'm feeling.

This boy—this soldier—standing in front of me here in the T1-ghetto had once been my saviour, my best-friend.

I take another few steps back until my back hits the wall. Then my legs give out underneath me and I tumble to the ground. As I sit there, I refuse to look at his face; his achingly familiar face.

Then—without my consent—his name slips off my tongue:

"Will."

William Kururugi—or as he's probably changed it: William Graythorn—and his family had taken me and my younger sister, Elissa, in when we had nowhere else to go. He and his entire family had shown us great hospitality when we lived with them for about three years on their estate just outside Colony Twenty-five—better known as Tokyo City.

I had loved Will like I had loved all my many biological brothers; back when things were less complex—before they all betrayed me to save themselves.

And then one day, William had disappeared.

I haven't seen or heard from Will in over six years; and now here he is, standing in front of me as a soldier for an Empire he told me he despises.

And of all the places we could've met, why a Ghetto in the middle of Tokyo under such surreal circumstances.

"Adrianna?" Will says, equally surprised at seeing me here. He sounds unsure, as if he thinks his eyes are betraying him. "Adrianna LeeBritannia?"

I stand up, finished with crawling on the floor. Dusting off my grey school skirt, I turn and look into his eyes; into his beautiful blue eyes.

"I go by Rin Cardemonde now," I say, completely devoid of emotion. I've gotten good at sounding like a robot over the past couple of years.

Will seems to sense my foul mood—like he's always been able to—and straightens his back. "Then I suppose it is only fair to tell you that I go by Graythorn now."

"I thought you might change it back," I say without missing a beat.

"What are you doing here, Adrian—Rin?" he asks suddenly, fear colouring the words. "The T1-ghetto is no place for a schoolgirl. Especially not dressed like that." His eyes survey me intensely, so I quickly look down at myself: My skirt is hitched up, hanging about five inches too short. My shirt is still tucked in, but covered in soot a shade darker than black. The first two buttons are missing, revealing more of my white, school-regulated bra than is considered appropriate by modern-day society. My maroon, button-down sweater hangs open—I can't see its buttons anywhere either.

I don't move to cover myself up. I don't make any moves, period. I know when moving is just a waste of time.

"As stubborn as always, I see," William mutters so quietly that I barely hear him.

Will makes his way over to where I am standing, then he pulls something off the holster of his gun—two somethings, actually—and without hesitation, he takes both sides of my torn-up shirt and pins them back n place with two rusty safety-pins. He takes a step back to admire his handiwork.

_What is a soldier doing walking around with safety-pins? _I wonder briefly.

"It's not much, but it will last long enough for you to get back to your school." Will turns around to walk away, but I rush after him, grabbing his upper-arm and stopping him in his tracks. He tenses immediately, and I can feel the muscle under his skin moving against my fingertips.

"What do you mean by that?" I ask breathlessly

He sighs. "Rin, as of right now, this Ghetto is a battlefield. You need to get as far away from here as possible. Now."

"I'm not leaving until you tell me a few things."

I haven't seen Will in years. If he thinks I'm just going to let him go before he tells me where the hell he's been, he'd better start thinking twice.

"You of all people should know that I can't tell you anything anymore." He's referring to him now being a soldier.

I cross my arms over my chest like the stubborn child he still thinks I am. "And you of all people know that I won't stop until I get what I want."

"What do you want me to tell you, Rin?" Will asks, his soft voice echoing loudly in the dark room. My new name sounds odd coming from such an old friend.

Both Will and I are now standing outside the ruined truck.

My voice rises as I shout, "I want you to tell me where you've been for the past six fucking years!" Anger, which quickly turns into rage, bubbles out in my words. I usually don't swear openly—it seems a little vulgar to use ugly words to bring a point across—but this time I couldn't help myself.

"This is hardly the time—or the place—to talk about that!" Will retorts, furrowing his brow in annoyance, like he used to do when he was younger.

"Fine!" I shout back, at a loss for wards. "But I am not leaving." I don't know why I've suddenly become so angry and impetuous. I know I have to get out of this place, but for some reason, I can't bring myself to run—like any normal person would.

I turn, wanting to put as much distance between me and Will as possible—without losing sight of the tank, of course.

_The tank is the whole fucking reason I'm in this mess, _I think sourly, _it better be worth the trouble._

If Sheno had been willing to die to keep this tank away from the Imperial Army, then whatever's inside has to be valuable. I'm staking my better judgment—which I fear I might not have a lot of at the moment—on that insinuation.

Footsteps pounding against concrete reach my ears, then, and my head whips up. In the corner, water drips slowly onto the group in a corresponding rhythm.

"Graythorn!" someone shouts; soldiers looking for Will.

Will doesn't answer.

"They'll be here any minute, Rin," Will says to me instead. He's still somewhere outside the truck. "You can avoid all of this if you just turn around and run."

I don't say anything.

"Private Graythorn, answer me!"

"I think he went this way, Captain!" a different voice calls.

Both sound mildly annoyed.

The pounding grows louder.

Will tries one last time to convince me to leave, but his plea falls upon deaf ears. "I cannot leave this truck," I say flatly.

"Graythorn!"

His eyes narrow and he looks at me levelly. "Why are you being so damn stubborn?"

"I'm not stubborn," I mutter quietly, cryptically, "I'm selfish."

I'm staying to be spiteful—to me and to him. But my reasons don't really matter, do they?

"If they find you here, they will kill you, do you understand this?"

"Let them come," I say, hopefully sounding braver than I feel.

Will grinds his teeth, pulls his full lips into a tight line; then he laughs humourlessly.

"What's so funny?"

The pounding of feet matches the pounding of my head, which hasn't stopped either. The voices grow louder and louder with each second that passes.

"I'm laughing at myself, Adrianna," he says finally. "I failed to save you once before, and now it's happening all over again."

"In here, Captain!" someone shouts from just outside the barren garage. I can't see a door, though I know there's one in here somewhere.

_What the hell is Will talking about?_ I wonder.

Wherever the door is, it starts to quiver; the hinges are rattling loudly.

"I'm sorry," Will mutters, and this time he's the one to speak cryptically. Seconds later, a bang echoes hollowly through the room, and I know the door has been brutally kicked down. Twenty soldiers come rushing into the room, heading straight towards where Will and I are standing, glaring at each other through the darkness.

Tearing his gaze away from mine after what feels like forever, Will says, "The tank is in the truck, Captain."

"Good work, soldier," a burly man with greying hair says in a deep, intimidating voice. He slaps Will on the shoulder before pushing past him to inspect the truck.

My eyes dare him to accept the compliment. He averts her gaze.

I don't move; not because I can't, but because I know it won't affect the outcome of the situation. If I'm caught now or later, it won't change my fate.

The captain returns, and his gaze rests on me, raking over my too-short skirt and safety-pinned shirt with a lascivious smile. "What is an Imperial schoolgirl doing here?" he asks, the crack in his deep voice betraying the thoughts he is desperately trying to hide behind his dull eyes.

"School is a nuisance, Sir," I answer sarcastically sweet. "And the Ghettos are where everything happens; where all the excitement is."

He looks at me with a shocked expression, which quickly changes to one of desire. "And did William do that to the buttons on your clothing, young lady?"

His malicious intents are clear, and I want to scream at him to get the hell away from me, that he's old enough to be my father, but I keep my resolve.

Will steps in just in the nick of time. "Of course not, Sir. This girl was a hostage of the terrorists. When I shot the driver, she burst out through the doors." He's blushing.

I stare at him with wide eyes. Why is he lying to his superior to protect me? A moment ago, he was ready to hand me over, no questions asked.

I failed to save you once, and now it's happening all over again.

The captain frowns. He walks closer to me, and my breath hitches. He smells of cigarette smoke, cheap alcohol and sweat, which makes keeping my composure even harder. "The terrorist didn't mention a hostage."

He stretches his hand out and grasps my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Do you know what's inside that tank?"

Over his shoulder, Will shakes his head in a silent no.

"Yes," I say, even though I probably won't be able to guess.

As fast as he had stopped in front of me, the captain turns back around, walking away. "Kill the girl," he orders Will, whose eyes widen. "She knows too much."

"She's just a student!" Will protests.

_Be quiet,_ I want to snap at him. _I can take care of myself._

"We can just let her go! She won't tell anyone, I'll make sure of it." He glares at me. _This is __your__ fault,_ his eyes tell me.

The captain doesn't miss a beat, "If you don't shoot her, someone else will."

Will tosses his gun to the ground with a frown. "I refuse to shoot an innocent schoolgirl."

The captain seizes Will by his upper-arm. "I thought you'd be first in line to shoot an Imperial," he says with a scowl.

"Well, you thought wrong. She has done nothing to warrant death."

"Fine, then. I'll shoot the fucking girl myself." He aims the barrel of his gun at me, then pulls the trigger . . . and the shot goes into the roof.

Bewildered and scared, I look around to find the source of the captain's sudden distraction. It doesn't take me long to find it: Will had thrown himself against his superior, causing the bullet to go astray.

Without so much as a breaths' worth of hesitation, the captain pushes Will to the ground and pulls the trigger a second time.

Time slows as I see the bullet go into Will's chest. I don't shriek; don't cry or say his name; don't run to him. I stand still, staring at Will as he dies in front of my eyes.

My childhood friend . . . gone. Again.

I shift my gaze back to the captain, who is looking at me with his own unwavering, predatory gaze.

He aims his gun at me once more. A wait a beat and then pulls the trigger a second time . . .

From there on, everything goes in slow motion again: I see the gun ricochet as the trigger is pulled; see the bullet fly my way; smell the acrid stench of manipulated gunpowder filling the musty air. I close my eyes.

I'm not ready to be hit yet, but I know there's nothing I can do about it. Running will just condemn me to a later death.

There's nothing I can do other than accept my fate: This is how I am going to die.

Will anybody miss me? Will they look for me? Will the soldiers leave my body here t rot?

Time passes excruciatingly slow as I wait for the bullet; for the feeling of hot blood on my forehead.

But it never comes.

I open my eyes again, not knowing what else I should expect. Maybe he'd missed? Maybe I am already dead?

But what I see when I open my eyes to slits, I would never in a million years have guessed:

A boy is standing in front of me, shielding me from the captain's anger. He has pale white skin and light-blue-coloured hair, and is wearing loose-fitting white clothing. After a moment, he turns around, and I see that he's smiling. The bullet is lodged into his forehead, between his eyes, and two trails of bright blue blood is leaking down from the wound. He is smiling.

Without a word, he presses is two forefingers to my forehead—there where the bullet was supposed to hit me—and I feel myself slip from our dimension. Time seems to stop, slipping out of my grasp.

My limbs feel as if they're being torn apart; my vision swims, so I close my eyes. My headache has stopped, though.

"Open your eyes, mortal," a young-sounding voce says slowly. "You are no longer in any danger."

Even though I don't recognize the voice's command, I obey its command, opening my eyes and finding myself standing in afield. A sparkling blue lake is nestled into the foot of a mountain, shining in the bright sunlight. Flowers surround the lake in every colour imaginable. A breeze blows through my long black hair, chilling my too-hot skin.

Everything is utterly silent.

"Where am I?" I ask, finally finding my voice. It's hoarse.

"We're in Nowhere—my dimension," the voice says. Its owner is still nowhere in sight.

I spin around a few times, searching frantically for the origin of the voice.

Then the owner appears in front of my, like a hologram—there one second and gone the next. It's the same blue-haired boy who'd taken the bullet for me.

The bullet-wound is gone; the blood wipes away.

"Who are you?" I ask, taking an instinctive step back. "What do you want from me?"

"You needn't fear me, Adrianna LeeBritannia," he says, taking a step towards me. "I am here to offer you a deal."

"Who are you?" I ask again.

The boy sighs, and the image falters for a second. "My name is Alexan."

He's quite handsome, with a strong jaw line, unsettling eyes the colour of charcoal and straight white teeth. The wind blows his soft-looking hair into his face, and he pushes it away impatiently with long, elegant fingers.

"And I am here to offer you a deal." The words are mechanical, rehearsed, but they interest me nevertheless.

I raise an eyebrow. "What kind of deal?"

"One that will provide you with power beyond your imagination."

Power beyond my imagination. The words echo in my head.

Alexan continues, "You seem to have an undying hatred for the Imperials, Rin; though you are one yourself."

I fold my arms over my chest. If he knows my name, then he probably already knows why I hate my people. "Go on."

"I want to present you with the opportunity to release yourself of this hatred. And there is only one small price you need to pay for it."

"So like a contract?"

"Yes, sort of. Unfortunately, I cannot disclose the terms of this 'contract', only that when the right time comes, you must grant me my one wish."

"What is your wish?"

"As it was implied, I cannot reveal the details of anything at the moment, but it shall be made clear when the time is right. Are these terms acceptable to you?"

A power that will allow me to release all the hatred I feel towards my family? That's what he said, right? What will—what can—a power like that do to my humanity?

In the end, my curiosity gets the better of me: "Yes."

Alexan breathes out a sigh of relief. "Repeat after me, then." He pauses. "I, say your name—"

I repeat. "I, Adrianna LeeBritannia—"

Alexan goes on. "Accept the terms and conditions of this contract—"

"Accept the terms and conditions of this contract—"

"In exchange for the power, given to me by Alexandrio Korlov, to achieve the things I can other wisely not."

_Alexan Korlov. Korlov is a Russian name. He's from the Chinese Federation._

"In exchange for the power, given to me by Alexandrio Korlov, to achieve the things I can other wisely not."

Alexan smirks, giving away nothing. "Excellent."

Then everything goes back to normal: I am back in the dark garage inside the dilapidated building again, with a gun trained at my head.

Will is still dead. And now Alexan is lying by my feet. Also dead.

Over half an hour had passed in Nowhere, but only two seconds had passed here.

The captain swears loudly, shocked, but re-aims his pistol nevertheless.

Even though Alexan hadn't told me what my new power has left me entitled to, I somehow know what I am capable of now.

"Before you shoot me," I say with real bravado, "let me at least introduce myself. I do not want to be listed as an unknown subject when the Army assesses the damage in the Ghettos."

Nodding his head, the captain lowers his gun and the other soldiers follow suit.

I smile at his ignorance; a soldier should know better than to trust a girl het meets in a Ghetto. "My name is Adrianna LeeBritannia; Fourth Princess to the Throne of the Holy Imperial Empire," I say theatrically, relishing the way the soldiers' eyes widen with shock and sudden recognition, "and I command you all to die."

And just like that, they do.

I close my eyes after the words leave my mouth; but I still year the pull of triggers; the chorus of "Yes, your Highness. Of course, your Highness."

The soldiers fall to the ground one by one and I turn my head away, hoping that it might somehow make my actions seem less vile.

Fifteen people—all with lives and friends and families—are dead now, because of me, and I hadn't even pulled the trigger myself.


End file.
